Sherlocks return, feat Rage John & graphic sex
by redsmoke500
Summary: John is a broken man after Sherls 'death', even after 3 years. Everyone else moved on but him - why? Sherlock returns, all is lovely until John gets angry, punches Sherl, calms down, patches him up and they suddenly get passionate. One-shot. Bit porny.


John Watson was only human. Tough in most ways, but still just bones, blood, skin, innards…all breakable. Over time, shallow wrinkles had mapped his firm face like history revealing its tracks. The small trenches of age lining his jaws, and no laughter lines. He sighed, resting a slightly withered hand heavily on his crutch. What day was it again? He shook his head slowly, trying to get the murmuring out the back of his mind. Oh. _Oh_. Of course. It had been exactly 3 years since…since _him_. John felt his lungs and heart and ribs and stomach all start to knot and tangle and pull in different directions, and felt his eyes burning. John smacked his leg with the crutch, angry at himself for not even being able to say the name of his…friend. Best friend. He shuffled towards the sofa, his usual marching fading away. It had all been too much. The broken man rested his cane next to him – the only thing he had by his side these days. Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson had somehow all moved on, John had no idea how, and a small part in the back of his mind nagged that he should be over it too, by now, and why wasn't he? But the man was overcome with permanent grief and the battle between his heart and his mind had been won hastily, effortlessly by his heart. On the sofa, he focussed on pressing the worn television remote buttons.

A harsh, creaking squeal made John jump, and he wondered how long he'd been sat on the sofa. A few hours? 'Breeze' John thought automatically, as if it was a reflex action – he already knew. The amount of times that door had tricked him throughout the first couple of years... it had never shut properly and the draft from the stairs always blew it open as if to mock him, get his hopes up. He narrowed his eyes at the faint darkness underneath it but at that moment, the sun slipped behind the clouds, and he realised it must have just been the shadow from the chair. He hauled himself up, and plodded to the shower.

After an hour of showering, dressing and cleaning the already spotless kitchen (apart from his gun on the table), he turned his back and made for his room in search of a knitted jumper. This winter would be harsh and unforgiving. London was already glittering with frost, the people in the city cloaked in their dark long coats and scarves (many a blue one that had caused John's heart to leap around in his chest wildly) and so he had tried to stay indoors. When out to do the shopping, he kept his eyes down, and ran through the list in his head over and over again, racing to get it all, never using the self-service tills, and only realising he had kept holding his breath when he got in. In his bedroom, he pawed through the jumpers until he reached a soft grey one, and promptly wriggled into it. Sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, he finally broke, letting a tear slide down his rough cheek.

A loud bang jolted John awake, he'd fallen asleep for only a few minutes. He shuddered, and got up stiffly. Everything ached. He replayed the noise in his head. 'Yes. Right. Window' and he went to the kitchen. Shutting the window was more difficult than it should have been – his fingers fumbled with the latch. 'I need a cuppa. No, coffee. Black. Two sugars' He smiled weakly, remembering an adventure. But it had been so long since… John straightened up best he could, and made the hot drink. He shakily raised the mug into the air, eyes glazed over.  
>"A toast?" A deep, warm voice resonated behind him. John released the mug, lurched for the gun on the table and span round all in one movement with surprising agility. The mug crashed and the drink flew out, burning his feet , but John didn't move. A worn, navy scarf met his eyes. Wearing thin, but in an old and beautifully wise way. A faded black coat. John wanted to think 'coincidence' but he couldn't. It was all too familiar. John had the gun pointed at the mans chest, point blank. He dared himself to look up and was met with grey eyes that has once been blue but somehow the colour had faded over time, drained. But they still sparkled. The thin lips were pulled into a small smirk, a smirk so stupid and annoying that John couldn't pretend he didn't know who it was anymore.<br>"Sh..Sher" John croaked hoarsely.  
>"John Watson. You really are a soldier." Sherlocks deep voice purred with…pride, was that? The gun clattered to the floor and the small man pressed his face and body into the dark folds of material as long, slender arms wrapped tightly around his violently trembling shoulders.<br>"It's y-you. Really_ you_."  
>"Yes, John." and then after a moment:<br>"I would never leave you for good." They stood there, holding one another as John sobbed uncontrollably.  
>"What I said about heroes, John… I didn't mean it. Because you, <em>you<em> are living proof."  
>"Proof?" John's voice cracked as he stared up.<br>"Heroes exist, John. But only one. And that's you." John sagged a bit in Sherlock's arms at the words, his knees going slightly weak.  
>"I never gave up" John growled suddenly.<br>"On you, I mean. I always believed."  
>"I know." Sherlock dropped his voice to a whisper, not trusting his voice for the first time ever. <em>John had believed in him and still did.<em> After a long time of holding on to each other, maybe hours, Sherlock breathed softly into Johns ear,  
>"What you said at my grave was very sweet, John"<br>"…What?" John sniffed and cleared his throat, trying to regain some dignity. He didn't need to try, Sherlock thought. He would always have the utmost respect for John.  
>"Wait..you…" John seemed to have absorbed the information.<p>

A few seconds later, an angry, animalistic scream of 'YOU WERE THERE? YOU WERE THERE WHILST I WAS AT YOUR GRAVE THAT DAY OF THE FUNERAL? YOU BASTARD! WHERE WERE YOU, UP A FUCKING TREE OR SOMETHING? SHERLOCK HOLMES…' Sherlock was running round the flat with an angry John chasing him, battering him violently with a rolled up newspaper.

Within a minute, he had Sherlock cornered in the bedroom, John visibly shaking with rage. Sherlock had expected this, but was still quite nervous. He knew what John was capable of and really didn't want to be on the receiving end.  
>"John" he pleaded weakly.<br>"Please, John, I'm sorry. There I said it, I'm sorry" he panted.  
>He begged in defence. Here was Sherlock Holmes, THE Sherlock Holmes, begging for mercy. Suddenly John realised this, the fact he was faced with a cornered Holmes. Potentially dangerous, but it was John who was in control. He dropped the newspaper and saw Sherlock relax slightly. In less than a second afterwards he smashed Sherlock around the face with his fist, not missing his nose and teeth this time. Sherlock groaned and cried out in pain, sliding down into the corner of the bedroom. He spat out blood.<br>"Deffnally baa ayy" he moaned, his mouth odd and red. John managed to decipher it as 'Definitely a bad day' as he lowered his fist and snapped out of the anger.  
>"Sherlock" he breathed.<br>"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock whoah whoah whoah"  
>And ripped a tissue from its box from the side of the bed.<br>"Stay still, hold on, let me see" John said worriedly. Tongue bleeding, a cut and bleeding gum, a wonky looking tooth that John didn't dare touch in case it fell out and a bleeding nose, which thankfully wasn't broken, but a bit odd shaped so maybe actually _slightly_ broken. Oops.  
>John held the tissue to everywhere he could, Sherlock groaning. He then leant over and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. It was warm, smooth, soft.<br>"I'm sorry too" John whispered, and then mumbled,  
>"I'll be right back with a bowl of water and a towel, I'll see what I can do."<p>

After much gentle dabbing and stuffing of tissue balls up Sherlocks nose  
>("Buhh I luk stooped Johhh") ("No you don't, now be quiet, it'll stop the bleeding")<br>it all finally stopped, and John rearranged Sherlocks nose quickly as he could.  
>"John, I am sorry" Sherlock breathed tenderly, still sat in the corner, at least some sort of pain in his eyes.<br>"I know. It's…it's okay, actually. I mean, it was never okay, I was a bloody wreck, I still am, but the thing is, you're here now so I know everything will be okay. I'll get better. As long as you stay."  
>"I'll stay. I promise, John, I won't leave again. I had to this time though, for your own safety."<br>"What do you mean?"  
>"Moriarty…"<br>"Oh. Well, you can explain everything later" John sighed lightly, suddenly unable to take his eyes off Sherlock.  
>"Mmm." Sherlock said, staring intensely back at John. Something told him he extended the 'mm' too far but he didn't care.<br>"I missed you" John sighed in defeat. He reached out to cradle the side of Sherlocks face, it felt oddly hot in Johns warm palm. _Was Sherlock's face red?_ John thought with surprise as Sherlock lowered his face closer into Johns hand. John wasn't a genius but he knew what an unusually hot face meant, and this time, it wasn't a fever. John leant forward silently, waiting for Sherlock to raise his head. He felt him burning under his hand. The man hunched on the floor slowly lifted his scorching gaze up to Johns eyes. It was an intense stare and John felt his spine tingle and the hair on the back of his neck prickle and stand up. This was pure lust. John felt heat travel down his body. This was a look that said 'I need you now, I want you now, I don't care about anything else, I will completely devour you.' John slowly leaned in and Sherlock closed the remaining gap with ease, pressing his hot, smooth lips to Johns warm soft ones. John felt the blood leaving his head and moved closer to Sherlock, pulling him up by the scruff of his shirt to a standing position. He pressed him against the wall, pushing every part of him he could against Sherlock, who pushed back to challenge John, to feel the friction. They let out a breathy huff as hands trailed, yanking up shirts and jumpers and undoing belt buckles, zips and buttons, sliding up backs and chests and shoving roughly down the front and back of trousers, grabbing, stroking, feeling each other under their hands.  
>"Bed" Sherlock gasped.<br>"Uhnf" John growled out in agreement, and he dragged Sherlock over by his trousers, which he then promptly pulled off. Sherlock grabbed Johns tee and yanked it over his head, eyes raking his olive-skin, solid, still-toned body and the mangled white scar that clawed up his left shoulder. John watched Sherlock look him over, nervous for once. Sherlock looked at John suddenly and kissed him, ignoring the pain in his mouth and nose.  
>"You're so beautiful, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, retreating to yank off Johns jeans with ease. John tugged at Sherlocks shirt witch so much force it ripped and slipped off his pale figure. It was an expensive shirt but Sherlock didn't seem to care and John couldn't help but stare at the sculpted muscles. He never realised Sherlock was so…well, <em>ripped.<em> Maybe that was new. Either way, John loved it. He looked up at Sherlock and actually managed a smile. The first smile in 3 years.  
>"<em>You're <em>so beautiful" He murmured, stroking his hands down Sherlocks slim torso, then sliding an open palm along his shaft which was pressed desperately against his stomach and glistening heavily with pre-cum. Sherlock gasped, his eyes fluttering closed slightly.  
>"God, John, your hands are so hot. "<br>"Only for you." John said quietly, stroking firmer and closing his strong fingers around the pulsing cock in his hand. He turned Sherlock round properly so he was lying on his back, stretching out his long limbs and exhaling with excitement. He slid down the duvet until his nose brushed pubic hair, and began to slowly lick the hot flesh all over, puling moans from the recipient. John teased, swirling his tongue around the tip of Sherlocks cock for a while before finally pulling him into his mouth and letting the detective fill up his mouth and throat. Sherlock groaned in ecstasy and writhed under John so that he had to be pinned down by strong, gentle hands, John slowly drawing out his licks and sucking the gasping man slowly into his mouth again and again, making it last, building up the tension as he curled his hot tongue around the head and Sherlock whimpered and hissed as John pushed hard into deep throat, and came with a strangled moan.  
>"Joh…" Sherlock huffed, breathless, slumping against the pillows.<br>"It's okay, relax" John said, sliding back up the bed running a hand through the silky black curls which were slightly damp around his forehead. He jumped violently as he felt a hard grip on his own penis, and looking down, saw a beautiful hand wrapped around him.

Within what felt like seconds, Johns body shuddered slightly as he let out his release, hot over Sherlocks firm hand, chest rising and falling heavily. They instantly lay back and moved towards each other to trail hands over each others pink skin again, as if it were a magnet. They fitted themselves effortlessly into a cuddle and John felt so whole, so alive for the first time in his life. Sherlock did too, his heart glowing and fizzing like a shaken up soda can. It was something he'd never felt before. He looked at John, realising his whole life and heart were in Johns gentle, sturdy hands. It came as a big shock to him when he realised he didn't mind. He trusted John to the moon and back. Or the sun and back. Which was closer again?  
>"Talk about this in the morning?" John said, hoping it sounded more like a statement than a question. Sherlock surveyed his exhaustion and confusion and nodded.<br>"Alright." He said.  
>They nodded, small smiles of surpressed glee from both, and snuggled down for the night.<p> 


End file.
